Going Dark

by Neil Lancaster

  He took his water bottle from his day-sack and took a long drink before stowing it away again, ready to go.

  *

  He lay down behind the log pile and slowly leopard-crawled to its edge, giving himself his first view of the front of the farmhouse. It was a long single-storey building with a slate-tiled roof and parking for four cars on a block-paved area to the front. It had three bedrooms, a single bathroom and a large kitchen diner with a log burner that was also used as a sitting room. The small lounge was rarely used. The front door sat squarely in the middle of the building but, like most houses in rural areas, it was never used, remaining locked and bolted with a heavy curtain drawn across on the inside. Tom could never remember anyone accessing the building using the front door; all visitors naturally would go over the hard-standing and along the path to the back door, where the house had a large garden that backed onto livestock fields. The garden was put to good use by his foster parents, with chickens in a large run and coop at the rear, and vegetable plots that kept the family in fresh produce most of the year. A small decked area with a table and chairs sat at the rear of the house, accessed by a set of French windows that were used infrequently.

  From his position he could see the front of the house and the leading edge that led to the back door, where any enemies would most likely emerge from.

  He ideally wanted a viewing point that would give him a visual on the back door. This meant that, once it was fully dark, he would move about a hundred metres across and adjacent to the track to give him a side-view of the house with a profile-view of the back door. This would also protect him from any casual glances that anyone may take from any of the windows.

  As the photograph that had been messaged to Tom showed Cameron and Shona in the kitchen, he was going to assume they were still there. It was cold and the smell of wood smoke in the air indicated that the log burner was lit, as the central heating in the property was not efficient, to say the least. The kitchen was a double-aspect room with windows at the front and rear, which gave Tom options he was grateful for.

  The farmhouse was accessed by a half-mile track of compacted earth and type one shingle that had to be regularly replaced when the heavy rains came. It was the only dwelling for miles and its isolation was complete and reassuring in good times.

  As expected, he could see Cameron’s old battered Land Rover at the front of the house and a smart, black Mercedes M-Class SUV parked next to it. Raising the MP7 night-sight he could easily pick out the license plate in the greenish gloom: the number was the same as Pet had dictated to him earlier.

  Just another half-an-hour now, he thought. Last-light was approaching, and it was time to go to work.

  28

  He remained statue-like for the next thirty minutes as the last of the light ebbed away. The wind picked up, gusting hard, and he felt a few specks of rain. While he didn’t welcome the discomfort of being wet, the extra concealment that poor weather offered would be helpful. In his Marine basic training, much of the efforts of the staff were geared to getting the recruits wet, cold, and miserable. Not out of any sadistic urges, but to reinforce the need for them to learn to look after themselves in poor conditions and yet still be operationally effective, no matter how bad the weather. It was impressed on them that often the difference between good soldiers and great soldiers was who could operate in harsh environments.

  He started to feel the cold seeping into his bones and decided that it was time to move forwards and across to his CTR location. He back-crawled to the cover of the log pile and stood, shaking the stiffness out of his limbs. From his day-sack he retrieved his fleece pullover, stripped off his combat smock and pulled the fleece over his head. He quickly zipped his smock back up and resettled the day-sack on his back.

  He moved carefully and slowly in a half-crouch between the areas of cover, picking points ahead of him to move to, taking him closer to the house in a clockwise direction to give a better viewpoint of the side of the property. As he moved, he stopped frequently to use the night-sight to check the farmhouse for any signs of movement.

  He soon found himself in a deep rut in the soft earth, where one of the massive logging tractors had passed at some point. Crawling to the lip of the rut, he saw that he was about sixty metres from the side of the house, giving him a good view of the vehicle hard-standing, rear garden, and the path to the back door.

  Squinting through the MP7 sight, the house was bathed in a greenish glow as the optic enhanced the natural light present in the windows. He surmised that the curtains were closed but the lights were on, as the optic was not overwhelmed by the artificial light coming from the property.

  Satisfied with his position, he settled down to wait. He was patient and could wait as long as it took; sniper training had taught him that as much as how to shoot straight.

  Pet’s voice erupted in his ear. ‘Tom, are you there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Branko is ringing now, can I patch him in?’

  ‘Yes, do it. I take it my phone is in the same area as last time?’ He didn’t want to speak so close to the house, but he felt that the wind was strong enough to mask his voice. He ducked down into the ditch a little to get out of the elements.

  ‘Novak?’ the gruff voice barked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hope you’re being sensible.’

  ‘I’m still here. Is that all?’

  ‘I’ll know if you’re not. I can even tell what fucking room you’re in if I so choose.’

  ‘Couldn’t be more pleased for you, Branko. Is that all?’

  ‘Remember: it’s nine o’clock now. I want that card by eleven in the morning or people will be hurt.’

  ‘I remember.’ Tom resisted the urge to finish with a threat of vengeance.

  Tom heard nothing more until Pet spoke.

  ‘He’s gone,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks, Pet. I have to be quiet now.’

  ‘Sure. Take care and don’t do anything silly. I’m going to put your communications on open mic so we can monitor what’s going on.’

  Tom didn’t reply but tapped the pressel twice and crawled back up to his viewing point, turned the scope back on the farmhouse, and settled back down while ignoring the creeping dampness in his legs.

  A flash of light erupted from the back door as it was opened by someone from within, who then stepped out onto the back path. The flare from the overexposed light made him shift his eye away from the night-sight as the individual slowly walked down the path. Tom adjusted the scope to take account of the extra light emanating from the doorway. The figure walked slowly onwards and then another burst of light, magnified by the image-intensifying properties of the scope, blotted out his view briefly. It settled, and Tom realised that the individual was lighting a cigarette as he ambled down the path in Tom’s direction. The man was clearly not aware of his surroundings and very tactically unaware: no professional would paint such a big arrow on their face by openly smoking in an unknown environment. He increased the magnification on the scope and focused on the figure’s face, which he did not recognise.

  The man was wearing a light-coloured, hooded sweatshirt, and light trousers; he was shaven-headed and of powerful build and walked in the graceless way of a seasoned bodybuilder. His face was etched with a bored scowl as he stood and smoked on the path, staring mostly at his feet but also glancing around at his surroundings. It didn’t appear to be any type of patrol or check for anyone, it was simply a smoke break. Tom smiled to himself and wondered if Shona’s aversion to smoking had forced the kidnapper to smoke outside in the cold. Shona was no shrinking violet and Tom couldn’t imagine her allowing anyone to smoke in the farmhouse, whatever the circumstances.

  The light at the doorway flared once again as another man came to the threshold and seemed to shout at the smoker, who turned to face him. Smoker walked back to the door and handed the cigarette pack over to his colleague, who cupped his hands to his face as the sight flared once again with the lighting
of the cigarette.

  Tom zoomed in on the pair as they smoked and chatted, an opportunity forming in his head. If there were only three kidnappers then he could take out sixty-six percent of their manpower with just two silenced rounds, leaving him only one other to deal with. Those were odds he would take any time.

  He quickly weighed up all the implications in his mind, a clock beginning to tick in his head as he did so.

  If he took them out now, he would then have fifty metres to cover to get to the house, which would take at the very least thirty seconds bearing in mind the terrain and fence at the boundary. He also didn’t know for sure that there were only three opponents. He needed more information and more intelligence to come up with a plan. There had been one smoke break and logic said that there would be others. He had time: the longer it went on, the more likely that the Serbs would relax, offering a greater element of surprise.

  He decided to wait, continuing to study the two smokers. The newer of the two was very similar to his friend in terms of build and gait. He was perhaps even bigger, with a bull-neck and shaved head, and was wearing baggy sports gear. Tom couldn’t be sure if either man was wearing body armour, such was the looseness of their clothing. He filed that fact away for future reference.

  They finished their cigarettes and tossed them on the path, the embers flaring away on the ground as both turned on their heels and re-entered the farmhouse, closing the door as they did so.

  *

  Tom remained utterly focused on the farmhouse despite the stiffness and cold that permeated his clothing and into his bones. Discomfort was a feature of CTR that every soldier knew only too well.

  The past three hours had demonstrated something of a pattern of behaviour of the captors within. Every forty minutes or so, the two Tom had previously seen would come to the back door, smoke a cigarette, and appear to converse in a calm manner for as long as it took to do so. He checked his watch again: nearly midnight. He would probably see the men again within the next twenty minutes. It was time to act.

  He crawled slowly forwards, keeping his belly low in the dirt as he edged inch by inch with the night-sight glued to his eye. He intended to get within twenty metres of the fence that separated the cleared forest from the track.

  When he was fifteen metres away from the fence, he found another rut left by the forestry tractor which he crawled into. That gave him an ideal firing position with a clear view of the back door. He settled and looked through the sight once again, checking that his view was clear and he was ready to engage. He knew what he had to do: he had no choice, these people were his enemy. He was back in sniper mode, ready for the moment, ever-patient, waiting for the target to appear, ready to engage. He had been in that situation on many occasions in Afghanistan: twenty-eight times to be precise, with twenty-eight confirmed kills. This was no different, he told himself, knowing it to be a lie.

  He didn’t have to wait long. The familiar flaring of the scope brightened the scene before him, and he tightened his grip on the MP7 as time began to slow for him imperceptibly. The first figure came into view, a cigarette already pursed in his lips, the lighter sparking as he raised it up to his mouth, exaggerated greatly by the image-intensifying properties of the sight. He was immediately followed by his comrade who was laughing, his hand extended and waiting for the cigarette to be handed over to him. The first man was having difficulty lighting the cigarette, owing to the wind that had picked up and was howling down the pathway, his hands cupped around the end of the lighter as it formed a bright flare in Tom’s vision. He lit it and then handed the cigarette pack and lighter to his friend, who repeated the process, managing to light his much quicker. They both stood just away from the door, smoking and talking, the ends of their lit cigarettes like torches in their mouths.

  Picking up a stone the size of a marble, Tom tossed it at the rubbish bin close to the fence, striking the empty receptacle with a resounding and hollow-sounding ‘thunk’.

  Both men’s heads turned sharply towards the noise. The larger of the two reached into the back of his trousers, producing an automatic pistol and holding it by his waist. After a brief exchange they slowly walked towards the bin, their eyes scanning all round. They moved stiffly and without tactical awareness; again, Tom detected no serious military training.

  They approached the bin carefully, the other male also reaching into his waistband and producing a pistol, which he held out slightly in front of him. They stopped a couple of metres short of the bin.

  Tom slowly moved the sight so the red dot hovered in the centre of the bigger man’s forehead, time inching by as he controlled his breathing and cleared his thoughts. He took up the tension in the trigger and flicked the safety catch one notch down into single-shot mode.

  A further pound of pressure and the weapon lightly bucked in his grip, emitting a soft report and metallic click as the working parts, re-cocked by the gases from the shot, injected a new round into the chamber. The bigger man’s head rocked back, the cigarette arcing into the air above him like a firework.

  Tom shifted his aim while calculating the trajectory. Deliberately, and in what felt like a relaxed motion, he shot the other man straight in the forehead. Both fell to the ground as if their legs had suddenly disappeared, one a fraction of a second before the other. The wind carried any noise away from the cottage and Tom doubted that anything at all had been heard by those inside.

  He paused for a full minute to check that there was no activity from within the farmhouse following the two shots. The subsonic ammunition and large suppressor had done their job; the report was as quiet as Tom had heard from a weapon and, while it was not silent, it certainly did not sound like a gunshot.

  He advanced on the two bodies, the MP7 held on his shoulder, slowly and deliberately aware that the low-calibre, low-velocity round may not have immediately killed the men. Unless they were dead, they were still a danger.

  He needn’t have worried: he didn’t need to be a doctor to see that both men were dead. He had seen many dead bodies—he’d killed more than most, as many snipers of his generation had—and those guys were as dead as any he’d seen.

  Both had small entry wounds, one centre-forehead, the other had gone straight through his left eye. Neither had exit wounds and Tom could well imagine the small round bouncing around inside their craniums, smashing their frontal lobes and destroying the central cortex of their brains. He took their handguns, one of which was still clasped by its now-deceased owner, and tossed them over the fence. He quickly patted them down, finding nothing else of value but noting that neither wore body armour or had a mobile phone on them.

  Nearly two minutes had passed since they had left the back door and Tom had no time to waste, so he grabbed hold of the bigger man by the shoulder of his jacket and dragged him behind the large rhododendron bush at the edge of the parking area, about four metres away. He repeated the process with the other body, breathing heavily with the exertion.

  He took a moment to regain his breath and prepare for his next move. Three minutes gone; nearly enough time to finish a cigarette. Whoever was left inside would be expecting them back soon.

  *

  He advanced to the farmhouse at a steady pace, not bothering to try to be silent as he strode down the path towards the back door. As he arrived in the storm porch, he squatted down and opened the small wooden box door that Cameron had made to shield the electricity fuse box. It had been replaced with a modern circuit breaker a couple of years before and was now simply a bank of switches which isolated various circuits in the house. He could hear the TV booming away from inside the house with what sounded like a sports game.

  He readied himself for his final assault. He just needed an edge: darkness and surprise would give him that. He flicked the isolation switch and the house was plunged into darkness, the sudden silence overpowering.

  He entered the utility room with his eye pressed against the scope, the room bathed in the pale green and black shades of the image
-intensified light.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ shouted a voice in Serb.

  ‘Power cut,’ shouted Tom in Serb, not expecting to fool anyone but maybe to introduce some confusion.

  He advanced along the hall towards the kitchen with his eye glued to the night-sight on the MP7. As he approached the open door, the flames from the wood burner caused the sight to flare and, momentarily, it was useless. Making an instant decision he allowed the MP7 to drop and catch on the harness under his arm. He moved to his thigh holster and drew the Glock, extending his arms out and pointing the sidearm towards the doorway. He entered the kitchen without hesitation, ready to engage.

  He immediately saw the giant Serb—Arken—in the middle of the room, his colossal, meaty arm encircling Cameron’s chest and pulling him tightly in to his body. He was a massive man who dwarfed Tom’s foster father, the man’s head only coming up to chin-height on the Serb. Tom also saw the automatic pistol jammed against Cameron’s temple. The light from the roaring stove bathed the room in an eerie yellow half-light, making their faces dark with dancing shadows.

  ‘Move one step closer and I’ll put a bullet in his head,’ Arken hissed through his teeth.

  Tom froze to the spot. ‘Don’t do anything stupid, Arken. No one needs to get shot here.’ His calm delivery was measured, but unusually, he felt real fear. He couldn’t lose Cameron.

  ‘Drop the weapon, Novak. Drop it now or they die.’ Arken shook as he spoke, his voice rough as he spat out the words in glottal Serb.

  ‘Okay, Arken, I’m throwing the pistol now. Don’t do anything stupid.’ Tom tossed the Glock onto the nearby leather armchair.

  ‘Now the machine gun: get rid of it.’